


Day 25 - Disorientation (5.3)

by fanfictiongreenirises



Series: Whumptober 2020 [25]
Category: DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Horror, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Reveal, Supernatural Elements, some body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27189739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfictiongreenirises/pseuds/fanfictiongreenirises
Summary: Sequel to Day 5 - Carrying. Dick wakes up in the Manor, but there's something...off.No 25. I THINK I’LL JUST COLLAPSE RIGHT HERE, THANKSDisorientation| Blurred Vision | Ringing Ears
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: Whumptober 2020 [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947217
Comments: 28
Kudos: 122





	Day 25 - Disorientation (5.3)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Raphale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphale/gifts).



> For Raphale, who had a marvellous theory about what was going on with Dick during the events of Days 5 and 7 =D I hope you enjoy!!!
> 
> I would definitely recommend having read Day 5 and 7 before reading this, but this can 100% be understood without any context.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own DC

THIS FANFICTION IS HOSTED ON **ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN** , WHERE YOU CAN READ IT FOR **FREE**. IF YOU’RE READING THIS ON A DIFFERENT WEBSITE, IT WAS POSTED THERE **WITHOUT** THE AUTHOR’S CONSENT.

Bright lights pierce Dick’s eyes when he wakens. This isn’t exactly a new thing for him, and yet, it somehow is. The light has never _hurt_ quite as much as it does now, blinding him for a moment. Dick shuts his eyes in an instant, barely refraining from crying out in pain. It takes a moment for the sensation of his eyes being burned to pass.

That’s when he can make out the sound of shouts, coming from the distance. With his eyes closed, he can hone in on the voices all the better, and it’s clear that one of the speakers is Bruce.

“…don’t _know_ what happened,” Bruce is saying. Dick realises now that it wasn’t that Bruce was yelling – it was more so the fact that his voice is the slightest bit unhinged. “He didn’t have a _pulse_ – what was I supposed to—and then there’s the matter with his _mouth_.”

It’s clear that Bruce is talking about him, but it’s at that moment that something deep inside Dick makes itself known. He can’t describe it exactly, because it’s unlike anything he’s ever known – a bone deep need for something, and the knowledge that, without it, he will die.

Dick doesn’t sit up before he’s stumbling out of bed in his haste to… well, in his haste to do _something_ about this. He can’t remember what came before this – all his memories are hazy, colourless things. He knows, though, that if he can get to Bruce or Alfred, they’ll know what to do.

Dick’s head is spinning like crazy. Is this what it’s like being on drugs? Dick’s never tried, beyond the stuff he had to take as part of the various stages of training as Robin. All desire to ever dabble in that territory had been well and truly dashed with Roy’s experiences.

So if he didn’t take drugs intentionally, maybe he was dosed with something. It’s the most logical conclusion Dick can come to as he staggers into a wall, one hand coming up to brace himself as he heavily collides into it and almost falls to the ground.

The air holds the strong scent of bleach, and other cleaning agents that Dick associates with the Manor. There’s the scent of coffee that’s rather prominent, as well as Earl Grey tea – Alfred’s go-to when stressed. Dick thinks he can hear the sound of footsteps, but it’s the sound of shoes on tiles, and the nearest tiled flooring is _much_ too far away for Dick to be able to make it out from his childhood bedroom.

Dick wishes there was a direct wall or something from his bed to the door, because he’s teetering like he’s drunk, trying to keep his balance and not fall. He has no idea _what’s_ going on with his balance, because even on a bad day, Dick can count on his body to know up from down.

There’s a loud, _loud_ ringing in his ear that he’s been ignoring this whole time, but as he draws closer to the doorway, it gets worse. Dick squeezes his eyes shut to try and block it out, but that does no good.

And then the door swings open, and Alfred and Bruce are walking in.

Dick knows it’s them, because he can smell that aftershave on Bruce that Tim gifted him a month ago that he’s been using regularly. And Alfred has that same smell that Dick had grown to associate with words like _family_ and _home_ and _unconditional_ , that musty sort of scent that he can only really breathe in when he’s hugging Alfred.

Dick doesn’t understand how he can smell them from at least five metres away.

There’s a loud crash, and Dick watches, almost in slow motion, as Bruce’s phone is dropped from his hand. It cracks as it hits the ground, the screen shattering, lines appearing almost in slow motion as the impact ripples from one corner and through the rest of the device.

“Dick.” Bruce’s voice is breathy, barely there. “You’re… _how_?”

And then Bruce is rushing over to him, hands going on his shoulders. One finger comes under his neck, to check his pulse.

Dick doesn’t care about any of this. His eyes are on that one vein that he knows is at the side of Bruce’s neck, Bruce’s jugular. He can _see_ it thrumming as the blood flows through it, the essence of Bruce’s life. Even without ever having seen it, he knows, somehow, just how it’ll feel, warm and wet, gushing over his hands, his mouth.

It’s what he needs.

Dick stumbles backwards, legs folding underneath him like he’s a newborn colt. He keeps scrambling backwards, like a crab, until his back hits the base of his bed. Dick’s legs are drawn into his chest, and he watches as Bruce and Alfred share a look with each other.

“Master Dick,” Alfred says. “Can you tell us how you’re feeling?”

“I…” Dick swallow, and his mouth is drier than it’s ever been. “I’m hungry, but I’m thirsty too, I just—I _need_ something. I don’t—I don’t want to…” He can’t say it, can’t explain it in a way that the two of them will understand.

“What’re your symptoms?” Bruce asks. He doesn’t approach, and Dick’s grateful.

“The ones I just said,” Dick says. It’s easy to fall into this role; giving a status report has been ingrained into his very being. He could probably report his own death from the grave if Bruce asked him to. “Sensitive to light. Disoriented. Shitty balance.”

He partly only says it like that to see whether Alfred will call him out on his swearing; when he’s silent, Dick understands just how bad the situation probably is.

Bruce looks towards Alfred again. “Dick, can you…” he visibly takes in a breath, “lift up your upper lip, and show us your teeth.”

Dick frowns. “Why?” he asks. “Is it drugs or something?”

“Or something,” Bruce says, but it’s not like that’s new. It’s always more of an ‘or something’ situation with them, isn’t it?

Dick lifts up his upper lip, baring his teeth to Bruce and Alfred. Alfred has now moved closer, to get a better look without entering into Dick’s personal bubble. So Dick can perfectly see the change in both of their expressions when they get a glimpse of his teeth.

“Oh, my,” Alfred says.

“What,” Dick demands, releasing his lip. “What is it?”

Alfred has moved to the bathroom right outside Dick’s room. Dick can hear him rummaging through the drawers perfectly, can hear every little clink as items hit each other and the sides of the drawer. He can hear the sound of rustling plastic, as Alfred evidently removes packaging of some sort.

Alfred returns with a handheld mirror. “Don’t be alarmed,” he advises. “This may come as a shock to you. But you and Master Bruce, you _know_ people. If this is… what we think it is, there’s a high chance that it’s reversible.”

Dick feels like this is a moment when his heartbeat would be increasing, but there’s a strange nothingness in his chest. He takes the mirror from Alfred, and brings it to focus on his mouth. He slowly lifts up his upper lip, just as he did to show Alfred and Bruce.

Dick almost drops the mirror in shock.

His canines have grown, extended into points. He doesn’t know how he didn’t realise this before, but those are definitely _fangs_ in his mouth. And that’s not all – his lips, once a brownish tone just a few shades darker than his skin colour, are now deeper, and have almost a glow to them. All signs of him ever having chewed on it are gone.

Dick brings the mirror to study the rest of his face, and he can’t stop staring. He remembers, a few weeks ago, him and Tim playing around with Snapchat filters. There were the fun ones, the animal ones, the silly ones, the ones that did things if you stuck out your tongue. And then there were the ones that really fucked with your self-esteem by airbrushing every blemish you had, giving you brighter lips, making your eyes shinier, your face a little slimmer, your nose just a little cuter.

This is sort of like that, only Dick has retained all his normal features. But all the little imperfections he had – the scar on the side of his mouth, from when he fell out of a tree, or the unevenness to his nose from breaking and resetting it so many times – they’re all gone. Dick’s skin, once an average, rather medium shade of brown, could now be described as luminescent. It’s taking in all the light of the room, and reflecting it out.

His eyes are still that same blue, but now brighter. He wonders distantly if they would glow in the dark.

Dick puts his own finger to his pulse, and it confirms what he knew when he woke up. There’s nothing there. There’s no heartbeat, no blood coursing through his veins. He doesn’t even know if he needs to breathe – has he only been doing so out of habit?

Dick stops taking in oxygen to test out his theory, and there’s absolutely no bodily function telling him to take in a breath.

He looks back to Bruce, who’s watching him. There’s a strange look on his face. It’s in part grief, and in part determination, stubbornness - the look of Batman.

“What am I?” Dick asks. His voice doesn't come out as shaky as he thinks it should - instead, it's velvety smooth, the voice of a ringmaster.

No one answers him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!!


End file.
